


The Hill

by RV_Qkpndj



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Horror, Odd, The Hill - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:55:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29682897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RV_Qkpndj/pseuds/RV_Qkpndj
Summary: The Hill waits.
Kudos: 1





	The Hill

In a clearing not far from here is The Hill not a hill but, The Hill. Just outside of town, past the city limits sign, down an unsuspecting red dirt path, deep at the heart of the cold woods. The Hill rests there hunched over in the center of that hollow. Many sins have visited The Hill. The demur green of the grass; tangled with the violent colors of wildflowers surround The Hill. The thorns of the thicket crawl up the sides of that mound of collected dirt, like a fortress, with thousands of armed soldiers posed to strike.

In the Town many people want to forget The Hill; want to forget that cold place with its demur green grass and its tangled violent wildflowers. It reminds them of red blood, orange fire, blue moon, and pale white skin. They try to avoid that path in the cold woods; of that frigid hollow resting in the heart; beating for them to return.

When gathered in their townhouse listening to their official council; they whisper in hushed voices of their past conspiracy. They have been having nightmares and daydreams of that damning place. It haunts their every thought, every waking hour, in almost every action. Insidiously it appears before them in many forms; the dark green eyes of a lover, the flickering of a streetlamp, the low glow of a television set, the rich color of an apple; the taste of ash.

Some, in their psychosis, smell firewood burning; causing bile to seep into their mouths. They smother their fires, turn out their lights, and stopper their gas lines. Anything that reminds them of the heat of those bright flames and the cracking of those old wooden logs mentally burns them; they recoil in imagined agony. They take to cold showers and to night adventures when the moon is new or hidden. They dare not leave in the brightness of the sun or the accusing face of the Moon.

In their dreams they meet at The Hill. Resting at the peak is a blazing inferno, the flames seem to lick the stars and cradle the Moon. At the heart of the pyre is their sins. Many faces appear beyond that angry veil, their bodies charred, black as obsidian. Their broken fingers pointing at their deceivers and traitors, damning them, and all of them. Their broken screams echo off the cold trees.

That place in the cold woods, on that unremarkable red dirt path, where the hollow is placed, where The Hill rests at the heart. It beats for its sinners and devils; beckoning them to return. To view its demur green grass in the light of the Moon, to light a beating blaze, and give to It. They hear Its call.

They answer. 


End file.
